childwoman

I like to think of you reaching for me in the shared darkness of our mutual ignorance Trying to make out my shape, reaching behind my defences if only I would allow you to Ignoring my voice in preference to your other senses as my words told you of sharp edges When you were able to feel the softness of spheres inside of me I reached for you, too, perhaps as a child reaches for their mother, for comfort, for hope I held pieces but they were jumbled and lacked a language to bind them to a shape A shape you could make out the longer you stayed and the harder you peered into darkness Eyes adjusting slowly to the light and hands slowly pulling cu

Pieces of a life that fit together for a time Sometimes hadtobeforcedinto place But the picture had a certain coherence And held endless possible futures When we disassemble - when we        separate         these         things Into piles of “mine”           and          “yours” (Objects, possessions, ideas, connections) - There remains a shared centre, for a time It caught me by surprise when I realised This shared centre eventually   d    w      i       n        d          l           e             s Quietly slipping away as new pieces come And new pictures are constructed That moment when someone who was

The soul of this place is sadness, Seeped through history like blood through soil; This is a hard place to live, A harder place to thrive. Filled with dreams of escape and away (Anywhere but here) That’s why the songs of the south Always echo in the heart: Sobs in an empty room

I have always envied those girls for whom Beauty hangs easy on the frame Draped like a tailored jacket Elegant like a Jimmy Choo Armani Prada Gucci; polished, smooth I have always been a girl for whom Beauty suits but rarely Something fought for and never won Something unintended, accidental, foreign Awkward face awkward body; frazzled, frizzy Their knee-high leather boots (dark brown, soft) Clack crisply on the polished floors Of the family homes in the wealthy suburbs My knee-high Doc Martins (floral print, loud) Make little sound as the rubber soles whisper Over mud and bicycle pedals and puddles Their hair is always shiny and straight

There's a poem brewing under my skin A storm of electricity and the dramatic My husband says that my creativity Is like a lightning strike: Infrequent, unpredictable, shocking Maybe that's why I could never Make a career out of this Can't turn it on like a faucet Can't turn it off when it comes I can just about hang on for dear life Dragged along in its wake Dust myself off after it has passed And think to myself, "Where did that come from?"

Maybe I'm just worried that my carelessness Will follow me into motherhood - The way I dented my boss's truck when I was 18 And then lied about it Might mean that when the bough breaks And I fail, inevitably, to catch the cradle Lying won't be enough But it will be all that I can think to do Maybe I'm worried that the worst in me Will become the worst in my child The way I lose my temper with you for no reason And then blame you Might mean that when I show my love through a sharp tongue And I fail, inevitably, to realise the damage done Apologies won't be enough But they will be all that I have left to try Maybe I'm just worried that my lov

Today the wind makes Sails of sheets and I am Five years old again